Approach of the storm Chapter 33

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Approach of the storm Chapter 33
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

Leave was until 23.00 hours and what a state some came back in. The vino had taken it’s toll. Many of the watch ashore were in various stages of drunkenness. The tidy, clean looking men, who had gone ashore, returned looking just as if they’d been hauled out of the “scum bag”, which is a large sack containing lost odds and ends, which we emptied out periodically. Some tales of the marvellous sexual encounters they’d had with all the lurid details of how they’d screwed the arse off some “ Italian Party”. “Wait while you squeeze up, you silly young bastards,” came from the older hands that had seen it all before. What I saw, made me resolve to watch my step, I’d too much to look forward to at home to take any chances now. That’s if I survived!

The kids we used to see on our shore leave seemed a cheerful, cheeky lot with their offers reminiscent of Alex. “You want a nice girl, English mariner? Very prettee signorina. You got chocolatee, you got chewlinger?” I came to the conclusion that these little Italian ragamuffins had never tasted chocolate and might have only had the odd piece of chewing gum from the Yanks. Geordie and I did disposed of what we could among them, a very difficult thing to do among such large groups. We usually gave to the youngest and poorest looking of them, or those who looked in poor physical shape. You had to deal firmly with them and stand and watch the kids eat what we gave them, for they had their bully boys who would snatch it and run off or forcibly tear it from the weaker or timid kids. Theirs was literally a fight for survival.

I remember one blonde Italian woman who unashamedly offered herself in exchange for 250 liras (12/6 (now 60p)) or two packets of cigarettes. She was attractive and I asked her why she did this. I was made to understand that the Germans had taken most of the food with them and she wanted money or cigarettes to exchange for food. I offered her a packet of cigarettes, for what came so easy to me could mean a lot to her. She took them and insisted, with tears in her eyes, that she paid in kind, I resisted her offer but hated what I was seeing. War is a dirty business in more ways than one. I knew this woman was being driven into a corner by hunger until she had to sell herself. Of course there was the usual hard core of prostitutes like in any other seaport the world over.

Our sweeps up the Adriatic now intensified. Two or three would go out, while other ships would be in harbour, putting defects right and taking their turn to patrol or carry out bombardment operations against the enemy communication and supply lines. We were having things pretty much our own way; we didn’t know then that fate had already cast the die for HMS Quail and many of her crew. The horror and tragedy, on a scale that I hadn’t seen before, would soon sear my mind and would leave an indelible stamp over the years to the present day and beyond to the grave.

The weather, at this time, was a mixture of grey English type days with rain and wind, sometimes sunny with calm or moderate seas; never the seas we had endured off northern Scotland and in the Atlantic. Liberty was becoming sparser, some of the flotilla visited Brindisie to the south of Bari. My birthday fell whilst we were there, November 11th my 23rd year, the lads on the mess deck were very generous in their offers of, “Have a sip of mine, Yorky, you old bastard,” and some in a joking mood said, “Not too f****** deep though.” I became well and truly drunk and to crown it all, we sailed that day so, I had the movement of the boat to put up with. My watch was kept by one of my mates, that unwritten law of the mess deck.

One operation, from Brindise, caught many of the ship’s company ashore, the Blue Peter, the recall flag, was flown not only for the liberty men from the Quail but for other ships as well. I remember, some of the lads had been caught with some “easy” women and returned in a disgruntled mood, the shore patrol must have known where to look for them from the speed that the crews were rounded up. It was an operation designed to catch a small enemy convoy, some of which had survived an Allied air attack. The dark funnel smoke marked the urgency of the situation. When the mess deck received the news over the intercom, everyone was eager to get underway, here was a chance to have a go and get our teeth into some surface action. Soon, special sea duty men were piped, engine room telegraphs tinkled, a bit of manoeuvring to ease off, wires and stays from the buoys, then with just the odd faint wisp of smoke as extra sprayers were turned on to generate the steam for a high speed chase, we were off. Slowly at first down the harbour in line ahead, then as we cleared the entrance, we built up to “full ahead” with the shudder of the revolving shafts throughout the ship, as the screws bit deep into the blue water churning up a hillock of white water astern, as the bows lifted to our speed.

It wasn’t particularly rough, just a moderate sea and we made good speed. I had done a watch below in the gear room and now darkness had fallen as we arrived in the area to be searched and had gone to second degree of readiness. I recall the night being particularly black and then, after a short while, from my position on 'B' gun deck, first of all, we smelled that odd land scent so peculiar to those Mediterranean days, so scenty, like old flowers and then we saw land lay to the east, just shear blackness of mountains rising in the gloom. Suddenly, a sharp red glow somewhere over there, not a gun flash, it flickered in the sky for a brief moment; men spoke in whispers, wondering what it was. It could have been a far shell, a grenade or a fire flaring up then down. Now the ship was at cruising speed, the radar’s dark shadow moving round and round, it’s slight whirring hardly disturbing the silence for we had been forbidden to make any noise or to smoke. Everyone was tense, waiting, waiting for some drama to happen. There was a possibility that this was a trap, boats could be in the area, eyes were straining to all points of the compass, the steady swish and glow of the phosphorescence of the waves in the wake. Then from the sea itself a foreign voice was calling, and calling in desperation, “Alto, Alto,” from a faint dark shape falling astern. As it bobbed in the wake, the murmurings of voices, then the flickering of blue light as Aldis lamps passed messages to Captain D. requesting permission to pick up survivors. This was flatly refused as this would have put the ship and it’s crew in danger if we hove to. There were E boats out there.

Poor b****** was the general feeling and although many of us would have chanced it, Captain D was absolutely right, it was a situation where your head mustn’t be ruled by your heart. I’ve often thought of that poor lonely man even now; of that voice calling for help from what would have been his watery grave; that lone figure rapidly fading into the dark, still feebly and faintly calling for a helping hand from an ignoring enemy. It transpired that some of the ships had been sunk and he was one of the survivors, he was so unlucky to have survived a shipwreck, only to be left in the sea by an enemy ship. None of us felt happy about it, it is one thing to go into action; it is another to leave a man floundering in a merciless sea. We were subdued now; even the whispers seemed to die away.

Some while after this, the ship gave a sharp change of course, then voices on the bridge, the old eagerness back; go to stand by search light; a bright, white glare as the long solid looking beam probed out straight onto the strangest looking scene that I have ever witnessed, like a spotlight on a stage, the bright beam lit up a ship, which had beached itself on the shore near some houses, to be nearly perched on a structure which might have been a church, and all of it looked like some creation in icing sugar in the searchlight glare. We expected the command to open fire to destroy it and it’s cargo; the command did not come; the searchlight was switched off, the ship wasn’t going any where. Anyway the partisans might have got to it as well and they would make good use of the cargo. Our search continues. I remember about this period of time that we did capture a prize and put a boarding party on it; a tribute to the efficiency of these furtive night operations. I was told that she was carrying bombs and special canned foods for the German Luftwaffe to the figure of about 800 tons.

At this time, we realised that we were having a marked effect on the Germans’ morale by the way “Lord Haw Haw” promised that we would suffer for our predatory activities in the Adriatic Sea. One afternoon, the flotilla sailed carrying a man dressed in khaki with a peculiar shaped forage hat, in the old fore and aft ship bag style, on his head. The hat had a red star badge on its front. Mess deck talk was of a big operation somewhere up the Adriatic, which was to involve the destroyers’ gunfire, and the R.A.F. They were supposed to illuminate the target for us, as our approach was made under cover of darkness. The night was really dark and we arrived in the area about early morning. I was in luck again, I was first off watch, so making my action station B gun supply, giving me a grand stand view of the whole bombardment.

Now I really felt some importance as I saw the shellfire streaking home. Each ship cruised behind the flotilla leader in a large circle offshore at a slow speed. Each ship had one gun firing star shells for the R.A.F. had not yet put in its appearance. The target was kept illuminated by this means. The other guns fire HE and I expected some SAP for strengthened positions. This was the sort of action men dream of before the recognition of what war really is, no matter what torn bodies and smashed buildings lie at the other end of the shellfire, the vivid white of the gun flashes dazzling against the fall of night, the clang of the breech blocks as we reloaded and fired, reloaded and fired, the big brass cartridge cases flying out and piling up until we had to kick them out of the way. Suddenly flames shot up and quickly spread. Each minute they grew larger and spread wider, I saw what looked to be shells ricocheted upward, glowing red hot before plunging in the maelstrom of fire we created. There was a terrific explosion and a series of lurid flashed as shells hit what must have been a power station. What a sight and what a night! Still the guns thundered, still the white flashes shot out from the clouds of smoke rising from circling black low slung shapes. Men were killing men and were enjoying it. We only knew that they were enemy and they’d do the same to us if they got the chance. Now looking back, I knew it was right, it had to be done and the regime, which had brought it about, had to go; or the world would be a very dark place indeed.

Suddenly, it was over. We breathed a sigh of relief as the flotilla formed into a line ahead and headed south. “Congratulations on a bloody good shoot, boys, we appear to have left the enemy, a bloody good fire to warm himself on, now we are returning to base, thank you all.” After the skipper had ceased speaking, a new voice came over the tannoy, “Send one man from each action station for a treat.” My days in the Atlantic had usually meant no bread after a day or two, more likely to be hard biscuits and corn beef. The beauty of these short operations meant meals were better as you had faster access to replenish supplies.

The meal came hot and steaming pussers cocoa, with a generous lacing of tinned milk, a bread roll each, a thick slice of corn beef and even a jar of pickle, to stick our grimy fingers into. We were very hungry and this was heaven. “The old b****** must love us,” said someone, referring to the skipper in an oddly affectionate way. That was the way it was, we were not only a unit, and we felt a family feeling, especially after an action in which each had done his best.

Now a word about our engineer officer, he was a tall slim man, smart, dark wavy hair with just a touch of grey. He had a quiet assurance and a deep knowledge of his department. We stokers and ERAs were made to keep on our toes but Lieutenant Dixon was firm and fair, and I suspect under his hard shell that he was kind. I suffered a few rollickings from him; yet, I never disliked him for it. He could put you in your place in a manner that made you feel ashamed, but I never knew him to harbour a grudge against anyone. They told me that he had come up from the ranks. We, of the Quail’s engine room branch, admired him. Besides being an officer, he was a friend. He was one of the first to congratulate me on the birth of my daughter.

I hope that old “Dixy” is still around. The last time that I saw him was at La Maddlana, where he took over as Naval Officer in charge. He had been promoted to engineer commander. He had stepped out of the big staff can, walked across to me and shook my hand and said that he hoped I was enjoying my shore-based job. Then I saw the gold oak leaves on his cap and the three thick wings on his cuff. After congratulations he informed me of the loss of an old pal from the Quail who had died when a U-boat had sunk the destroyer Laferey. The friend that I had lost was a leading stoker, “Mick Keen“, an Irish lad, a great comedian. He had a way of sitting on the mess table with a towel wrapped turban fashion around his head, a piece of thread and a hammock lashing, doing the Indian rope trick, puffing his cheeks out and looking for all the world like a white edition of an Indian fakir. And now Mickey was gone; Mickey, so hard to ruffle or upset, who could make a joke of anything from an exceptional big wave to a falling bomb. I thank my God for my knowing men like these.

Now we were returning to base at a fast speed, we were elated at a job well done. The shuddering deck beneath our feet reflected confidence through the deck plates to our very souls as we felt the surge of the increase in speed of the turbine. Get in quick, take the enemy by surprise, blast away under his nose, out again and full speed for home. The smiles through the smoke, from grimed faces from under anti-flash hoods, from beneath helmeted, spoke volumes. This was real comradeship.

Bari and shore leave, the wine and the signorinas for the watch ashore and hoping there would be no recall, so Blue Peter flying at the yardarm and another action to store away in memory.

Now all the elation, all the confidence of a top line crew was to be put to the test. The flotilla had been on patrol hunting for any enemy still afloat, we had found nothing and were returning to port. The flotilla had been formed up in line ahead and the Quail was last in line. The three ahead proceeded slowly to navigate the harbour entrance. I had just completed my final check and returned to the gear room to telephone my report to the engine room.

Pr-BR

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